She looks confused, and I realise it is because of my real name. She is used to my being Helen. But I decide it is easier not to explain. She is so bright and flexible. She will catch on. ‘It’s okay. My foot is well protected.’

Zac gently takes the photo from my hand, to avoid it getting bent or damaged. ‘It’s for you to keep.’ I can see how expert Alice has made him at doing multiple things at once. He puts the photo safely away, then moves the box to the end of the bench, so she can’t accidentally knock it. ‘I have copies of everything. I hope you don’t mind.’

I shake my head.

‘Picture,’ Alice says. ‘Draw,’ she says. ‘Promise,’ she says.

‘Oh yes.’ I pull a sketch pad and some crayons from my bag, and Alice gets to work.

While she is distracted, Zac reaches into the box again. This time, he pulls out the Liberty journal, covered in the Far Away Tree fabric. Two years ago, I refused to touch it.

‘Don’t say anything. Please. I’m ashamed of what we talked about when I first tried to give this to you. But I kept it. I thought you might tell her story. Tell yours. Tell any story you like.’ He holds it out. When I don’t take it, he says, ‘I understand,’ and returns it to the box.

I think about the Liberty book, and that it might be empowering for me to write in it someday. At first, I tell myself that this is pure fantasy, because what I plan to do is not something I could ever commit to paper. But then I wonder. Neither confirm nor deny. That is the only comment they’d ever make, the only action they’d ever take. They’d treat it as they would any other spy novel. I could change names and places, alter events and timelines, and make up a few things too. Isn’t that what fiction is? Lying? And haven’t I always been good at doing that? Besides, I have never been a proper employee of the Security Service. There is no signed contract. Nobody ever notified me that I was bound by the Official Secrets Act. I could even use a penname, like the Brontës.

For the first time since Zac found my orange journal, and since Charlotte’s death, I am feeling that urge to pick up my pen. Already, the thought of telling this story is gripping me. Unlike the stories I stole for the orange journal, this one is mine to tell.

Alice is engrossed in her art. There is a great deal of scribble, but there are also three wobbly circles, one small, one medium, and one large, that I think are meant to be a mother, father and child, with a wobbly yellow sun above them.

‘Finished, Alice?’ Zac says.